He walks past us into the kitchen, opens the fridge, grabs a bottled water... and walks straight out to the patio. without another word.
No acknowledgment. No truce. No attempt at even pretending things aren't a mess.
Zach watches him go, muscles rigid, fists curling once before he forces them to unclench. He doesn't move, doesn't speak, but the tension rolling off him is unmistakable—quiet, sharp, burning under the surface.
Yeah. It's that bad.
It's been two weeks.
Two weeks since the punch heard across the entire Pond.
Two weeks since Zach told Elijah to stay away from Sam.
Two weeks of the coldest, quietest war I've ever seen.
And the team? They're barely holding it together.
They won't say it out loud, but it's obvious. Plays fall apart. Their timing is off. Zach and Elijah on the ice look like two strangers forced to skate in the same direction. No chemistry, no trust, no spark.
You can't rip apart the chemistry between your captain and your alternate captain and expect the team to magically thrive.
Sam tried to get them to talk again—of course she did.
She begged Zach to apologize, called him dramatic, said Elijah didn't mean what he said. But Zach refused.
In his mind, Elijah deserved the punch. Some words you just can't take back—he'd know, he made that same mistake with me once—and the only person who can fix this now is Elijah himself. He has to man up. Be honest.
But that's the problem.
Elijah doesn't admit things.
Especially not feelings.
Especially not when they involve Sam.
So here we are—two stubborn men, one broken friendship, one silently suffering team, and a house full of people pretending this isn't all slowly killing them.
I squeeze Zach's hand gently.
His fingers tighten around mine, almost imperceptibly, but enough for me to feel how exhausted he is beneath the anger.
Yeah... this isn't getting better on its own.
And something tells me it's about to get worse before it does.
A part of me wants to believe the holiday break might give everyone some breathing room. A reset. A chance to cool the tempers and the pride and the stupid, stubborn feelings clogging everything up.
God, I just hope they find their jive again after Thanksgiving.
CHAPTER fifty
CAROLINE
Ipush the front door open with my hip, kicking my shoes off lazily.
"I'm home!" I call out, walking into the silent living room. No answer. "Hello? Anyone alive?"
Nothing—until I reach the back of the house.
